‘That’s a thought.’
‘Would it be so different?’
‘It would for me. I can’t imagine an existence with that kind of social structure: all that tribal business with elders and so on.’
‘It wouldn’t make any difference to me. I’d be just the same.’
‘You’d be married with ten kids because that’s what the society would demand. Even in this area, in this state – in this country, for that matter – after a few years people are going to feel they should know why you don’t want or can’t get what everybody else thinks is of value.’
‘I’d be a brave.’
‘Braves are young. Beautiful maidens are young. You get through one stage and you go on to the next. If you don’t go on to the next, everybody’s going to think you aren’t up to it. Unless you’ve got something better to do. And that doesn’t often happen. If you want to dedicate your life to some important work, say. Or some worthy cause.’
They were headed for an open-air agricultural museum, the Buckhorn Farm, when Franklin changed his mind. He said, ‘Hey, I know what I can show you. The family inheritance that never was: Raymond Saddler’s place that ought to belong to Irene.’
They turned off the highway, went down a dirt road, traveled a good way along it and stopped.
There in the distance was a house, set back, with three big trees growing nearby but not so close that they could be a danger to the roof.
‘And that’s where the old buzzard lives,’ Franklin said.
*
The family had to attend an anniversary celebration over in the next state. They’d be gone all day – Franklin, Irene and the four kids. And they wouldn’t be back till late.
Franklin handed Sherman the keys. Irene didn’t look too happy at that but she didn’t say anything.
While they were away, Sherman went into town. He bought a piece of steak, took it back to the house, carried it upstairs to the bathroom and laced it with the sleeping pills he’d seen in the medicine cabinet. Then he packed it up in waxed paper and started off for Raymond Saddler’s place. He rode part of the way by bus and then walked.
He got into the house through a window at the back. Once he was inside, he went to the room he’d chosen, and stayed there.
From any part of an empty house the overall dimensions could be guessed – and, Sherman thought, you could also tell what kind of character the place had. The longer he waited, the more he liked it.
Saddler didn’t show up till mid-afternoon. The dog came rushing ahead of him – out of the pick-up and scrabbling across the threshold as soon as the door was unlocked. Saddler had the gun broken over his arm. For a bad-tempered man he didn’t act very suspicious.
The dog threw himself around the corner and Sherman tossed him the meat fast. Then he withdrew into a back room.
While Saddler was busy locking up, his dog bolted back every bit of the steak and lay down on the rug to sleep.
Sherman heard Saddler going into the kitchen. He moved from cover. He approached the hallway, where he saw the shotgun, no longer broken, standing up against the wall. That made everything easier. Before that moment, he’d intended to use his knife.
*
The next day, at noon, the rumors went around that Raymond Saddler had committed suicide. He’d shot his dog first, but he’d been really fond of that dog: he’d fed it some sleeping pills before he did it.
Irene made two telephone calls to establish what part of the story was fact. Then she was on the phone for another hour, talking to friends and relatives.
The Page family expressed a decent regret at the news but they were jubilant. There was no doubt about what was to come: the property, the house, the money and all that it represented.
With the thought in mind of his wife’s certain inheritance, Franklin took Sherman out for a drink and told him that he saw how things were and he wanted to help Sherman to do what he’d done himself: pick a town somewhere, start up a business and make himself at home. He couldn’t spare much, but since Irene was going to come into Aunt Posie’s legacy at last, he could let Sherman have five hundred dollars. He handed over the check then and there.
Sherman took a swallow of beer and started to think. He thought until he convinced himself that Franklin had demanded a sacrifice of him that was equal to the moment in the war that neither of them could get away from. And when he’d cleared the debt by agreeing to carry out Franklin’s dearest wish for him, he was given an insulting five hundred bucks in exchange.
Was five hundred dollars enough to wipe away the memory of Raymond Saddler’s face or to allow him to sleep without seeing it again? From now on Franklin would be laughing: leading his normal life as if he didn’t have any connection with a single thing that was low or underhand. Five hundred dollars was certainly not enough. Especially when you considered what that land was probably worth. If Franklin were any kind of a decent man – the kind that stuck by his friends – he’d have had the idea on his own that Sherman deserved a little extra. A supplement.
People who have money, Sherman thought, will always rather give you money than a piece of their time. Franklin doesn’t have all that much, which means that … he’s willing to go without, as long as he can get rid of me. It wasn’t just what she wanted. He paid me off.
It would have to be five thousand at least, to make up for having to carry the burden. And also, for being treated like that: hired and fired – used, like some kind of menial servant.
That wife of his, too: Irene. All polite on top, and underneath she couldn’t stand you. That was something else that would have to be changed.
‘That’s mighty good of you, Frank,’ he said. ‘I appreciate it.’
‘For old time’s sake,’ Franklin told him.
Back at the house, Irene got her speech in, too. She told Sherman the latest gossip: according to the investigations, there was nothing suspicious about Raymond Saddler’s death – it was his own gun. She couldn’t feel sorry: he’d brought it on himself, leading that hermit life all alone in a big house, just so he could keep it from somebody else. No wonder he went crazy. But the thing was: she and Franklin were going to need the guest room now, because of the funeral. There were all kinds of cousins coming.
They’d hated Raymond Saddler but of course they’d go to the funeral. And collect the money.
‘You get his house?’ he asked.
‘Well, I don’t know. Why?’
‘That’s a nice house.’
‘Sort of broken down, maybe. He was the kind of man who’d never fix anything – he’d wait for it to fall down before he’d shell out on new paint.’
But it was a good house. With a house like that, you could get a wife easy. She’d clean it up, make it pretty, have lots of kids and they’d bring him his comfortable shoes in front of the fire. He’d have his dog and his gun, like Raymond Saddler, but not the same kind of dog – not one of those European police dogs. A good old American hunting hound. Get it when it was a pup and raise it to be his alone. He’d always wanted one. And the house.
The house was better than Franklin’s: larger, and with wider and taller windows that looked out on to big trees – the kind of place a gentleman would have owned in the old days. The days of yore. The days of your and the days of mine.
*
During the night there was a light rain, just enough to make the next day fresh. In the morning, after breakfast and as Franklin was about to suggest taking him for a drive on the way to work, Sherman said, ‘Guess I should be moving on.’
Franklin was caught so that he could only say, ‘Oh?’ He’d been intending to talk to Sherman in the car and in a reasonable way to put forward exactly that suggestion, reiterating the need to use the guest room for cousins.
Irene said, ‘I think that would be a good idea, Sherman. You don’t want to sit around, going stale, when you could get out and make a life for yourself. And we can’t give anybody much hospitality with the kids running around all the time.�
�
‘Oh, I got no complaints,’ he said.
Franklin thought he meant it. Irene wasn’t sure, and she became convinced to the contrary when – as he was finally stepping over the threshold to go out of the house – Sherman stopped dead, slapped his hands over his pockets and explained, ‘Don’t want to forget anything. I might have to come back.’
They got into the car and started off. Neither of them felt much like talking. Sherman was busy thinking: This is my chance. I’m only going to have one crack at it and that’s all. Because otherwise I’d have to work up to everything he’s got. But if I just step into it, she won’t mind. She’ll still have the kids and the house and what her cousin tried to gyp her out of. And the other house … the nice one. And it was thanks to me that she’s got it back. He wouldn’t have done anything himself. He had to pay somebody else to do his dirty work.
Further along the drive, he thought: No, I can’t do that. He saved me. When he remembered that, he was – as always – struck into a kind of amazement by the strangeness of the fact. It was so simple, just something that had happened; yet it was a mystery. He’d think: He saved me. Why? I was nothing to him, or he to me. But he did that. And he could have been killed doing it.
The event had become one of the large questions, like: Why was I born? or What am I here for? It perplexed him. Sometimes it filled him with despair.
*
They left the fields and drove through the hills. Sherman thought about Franklin’s life, so full of people and work and activity. What made Franklin so much better, that he deserved all that? When they’d come out of the service they were both the same. And now Franklin was on the inside, looking out. And he was on the outside, looking in. That wasn’t fair. Franklin had the house and the wife and the kids; that was what put him on the inside – not his character, which was no better than his own.
He could wait a while and then go back; go to Franklin and say: I want some more money, or I’ll tell.
Or, even better: I’ll tell her. And she’ll believe it and she won’t want to stay married to you.
Or he could just go ahead and tell her, the two of them alone in the kitchen: He said the place would be empty except for the dog and that it was some kind of insurance thing with the store. I didn’t think I was going to hurt anybody. I wanted to repay him for saving my life.
She’d believe that. Wouldn’t she?
I could say that he told me he wanted the money for a woman named Margie Somebody.
Sherman remembered the hushed, night-time conversation but not the woman’s last name. As he tried to recall the sound of it, he became unsure about the first name, too: whether it was Maggie or Maisie or Molly. Or it might not have begun with an M at all; it might have begun with a W. He’d have to drop that idea.
They went over the mountains and back into the valleys again, passing fields and farmhouses. Franklin drove him to the next town, where there was a bus depot – the same one where Sherman had been set down on his way to find Franklin’s address.
After he’d let him out, Franklin shook his hand. He wished him luck, got back into the car and – waving once, casually – drove away.
Sherman boarded a bus. As soon as it headed out of town he realized that he’d chosen one going in the wrong direction. He stepped down at the first stop.
He’d been deposited a few yards from an ancient filling station where the gasoline tanks had been removed and the service shack was falling to pieces. A toilet, with the seat off, sat in front of the door; somebody had filled it up with dirt. Down the road were two paint-peeled houses and a broken-down tarpaper hen coop.
He started to walk. As he moved along, he tried to figure things out. He’d left, but he hadn’t left. He kept thinking about Irene. She’s so good with the kids. She understands all that.
He could go back. If he did, he’d have to do it at night. Except – if he went back in the daytime, Franklin wouldn’t be at home. And if he picked the right time, Addie wouldn’t be there either, or the kids. I was pretty careful, but even if I forgot some things, he’s in the clear. Unless I tell somebody. Then it’s going to look like it was his idea all along, because why would I want to shoot a stranger? And I’ve got his check. I could say the money he gave me was for the killing. And I’d get away without a jail sentence because … they consider me not right in the head, so it wouldn’t be my fault. I’d say I thought he was showing me a way I could pay back what he’d done for me. That’s what I could say. I did kind of think that, too.
He’d seen no more than two cars in all the time he’d been walking. One of the drivers asked if he needed a lift, but Sherman waved and called out, ‘No, thanks.’ The road he was on seemed to be heading back but it wasn’t the same one he’d walked before or been driven over by the farmer who had let him hitch a ride. He’d have to keep going before he knew which direction he should take next.
She liked that house. Maybe she’d come visiting. If I said that he’d paid me to do it, would he contest it? He’s got a lot to lose. I don’t have that complication. Tangerines are complicated, apples are simple. She did eat of the apple and she offered it to him. She offered it. Because they always do. And if you aren’t quick enough, they take it away again.
Maybe Franklin would say: ‘I’ll think about it.’
And after he’d thought, maybe he’d come gunning for me. That would make everything easy from his point of view. If you own a lot of woodland, you can bury a man anywhere and feel safe.
It would be best to start on Irene.
Maybe she’d just say no. In that case … But she wouldn’t, would she? She understands all that. He had his pistol but a shotgun would be better. Suppose he went back at night and got hold of that gun Franklin had? Do it like the last time. They’d say Franklin had shot her and then Inky, Dinky, Pinky and Twinky – one after the other: bam, bam, bam. And then himself, like Raymond Saddler. Only no dog to worry about.
He was thirsty and he was hungry, but he kept walking.
At some time in the afternoon he came to a crossroad. There were trees bordering the road; everything else was fields. If you’d been standing in the center of one of them, you could imagine that the whole place was one huge field, even bigger than the one where he’d been trapped and destroyed years ago.
He stood where the roads intersected: at the crosspoint. For a long time he wondered which way to go, then he sat down under one of the trees. He fell asleep.
He had a dream about being killed in the war. When he woke up, he was breathing fast. He took the coin out of his pocket, tossed it up and caught it. As he threw and caught and fingered the coin, he whispered, ‘One good turn.’ In a little while it would be too dark to see what side came up, but he could still feel the picture with his thumb. He could keep turning it around, without throwing it. One good turn deserved another.
He had his knife and his revolver. There was the coin to tell him what to do: two sides to every question; and the big field where everything always ended up. He could take his time.
The crickets were chirring in the field. The light was dying from the air. Shadows came in like water on the tide. He hung in twilight, undecided: breathing in and out, and waiting for the long, languid swell of night to carry him into the darkness.
4 The Icon
Everybody except the old man was still at breakfast when Stratis came into the room. He’d hoped that most of the family would have eaten already and that he’d be able to pour himself a cup of coffee in peace. Out of the whole bunch (Elvira, Lucian, Lydia, Zenon, Aristides, Theo, Olga, Dimitrios and Nestor), the old man – his great-grandfather – was the only one he could stand at the moment.
If the early spring hadn’t been so wet and gloomy that year, none of the others would be there. They’d be down in the country during the week and up in town only for visits. But April had been cold and rainy. And now that the weather had improved, most of the family was still in town for the week and Stratis had decided to stay at the house for
a while too, although he had his own apartment.
Several months earlier, in October, he’d fallen in love with a New England girl named Julia, who was unlike any woman he’d been out with before. She came from a traditional Yankee family and she was as pretty and as blonde as a Christmas angel always neatly dressed in an expensive, preppy style: with her hair brushed back and held in a ribbon or – when she went out in the evenings – worn up. She looked like a nice, decent girl from a good family. That was what she was. She was also – or so he’d thought at the time – fairly chaste compared to most and certainly more so than could naturally be expected of a girl whose parents didn’t go to church.
His parents went to church. His whole, gigantic family went, except for the old man. And as far as Stratis could see, not one of them believed, although they retained a respect for the institution. He lost even that after Julia said goodbye some time in February, just as he was about to propose. From the moment he’d seen her, even before their first date, he was certain that she was the girl he was going to marry but, because he hadn’t wanted to face the whole, formal family thing and all the questions and hinting that would go on afterwards, he hadn’t asked her home for a meal. He’d assumed that that would come in time.
As soon as they were sleeping together, he knew that the family introduction would be easy. But he didn’t want to share her. They were isolated and perfect together. He was even amused by the fact that she couldn’t get his name right. He once asked her, ‘Why do you keep calling me Stratos? I’m good, but I’m not that good.’
‘Good?’ she said.
‘It means an army. My name is spelled with an i, not an o. And the accent goes on the last syllable: Stratis, like MacNiece.’
But she kept forgetting. It didn’t really irritate him until the night of their big quarrel. Given his cue by some trivial remark, he told her loudly, and with plenty of colorful phrases, that he must have been crazy to think of getting married to her: she had all kinds of faults, a lot more than he did, and she might as well hear the whole list.
Days Like Today Page 11